


oblivion

by rantachi



Category: Original Work
Genre: Mortality, Religion, personal, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 21:02:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15916170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rantachi/pseuds/rantachi
Summary: You fear oblivion. You fear nothingness, darkness, void,silence.You believe in an afterlife, but you're scared of what happens before that; if when you die, you just.... cease existing. You're too scared to die because if death means oblivion, you'd rather suffer living.





	oblivion

You're 7 the first time the grown-ups talk to you about religion. Life. Death. You clutch your empty hamster's cage and stare up at awkward, uncertain blue eyes that fumble as they tell you that _he's just sleeping, honey. For a long, long time. You'll see him again someday._ You stop listening after that, and stare past those who try and talk to you at the dirt that your precious companion now 'sleeps' under. _Death is unfair,_ you decide while sobbing, unable to really grasp why your little hamster won't ever greet you again in the morning. _If this is what Death is, how can the man who makes all things die be so kind?_

  


You're 11 when your auntie's dog dies, only a little older and used to hearing the same things over and over again. You listen to your cousin cry and lament her best friend's passing, wail for her to _wake up already, this isn't a cute trick anymore!_ You tell her what everyone told you to console you over the years for every pet death; _you'll see her again, I promise! She's just sleeping, and some day, she'll wake up and come back to you._ She stares at you as you finish speaking, and breaks down into sobs in the silence. As you try and offer her a comforting hug, you wonder what you said wrong; it's only what everyone else told you. You ask the God you believe in that night for answers, but only receive the silence and stillness of the night in response. 

  


Your mother cries and screams at you when your uncle dies; you can't even remember what time this happened even if you wanted to, because someone had to step up and help comfort her. You never met the man that drowned his life away in bottles of vodka and whiskey, just heard him once or twice over forced phone calls as an unpleasant end to your birthday whenever your grandmother came over, one hand always holding a bottle of wine. You know now that neither of them ever thought you were old enough at the time to know what alcoholism was -- _just a young and stupid **girl**_ , they would giggle and reply. Now you're neither stupid, nor a girl, and you're holding your wailing, broken mother as she mourns for a brother that she never really had. 

You have no good memories of the man or his mother, just the times he called your mother a cunt, or the time your grandmother came over drunk and screamed at her, shutting you in the house, and almost ran her over. You do remember clutching the phone and staring out the window shaking, not sure if you should be calling 911 or your father. So as you numbly call your living family, make the arrangements for a brief and unformal memorial, try and console people for a death you feel nothing but apathy for, you wonder why she mourns so much for people that hated her. You ask your God, that night, why he lets so much pain happen, and if this drunken fool of a man is burning for hurting your family so much. The stars in the sky don't respond, just twinkle a little less. 

  


You've stopped counting the years when your best friend dies; _suicide,_ they tell you two days later. You can only stare in mute shock at words on a screen informing you in a cold, unfeeling manner that one of your closest friends, your _family_ , was no longer going to speak to you in the morning or joke with you at night. You don't even get the courtesy of finding out the day of, doomed to waiting two days later with the blissful ignorance that your life was turning as normal. You stumble, typing a response back that you don't quite have memory of saying, send it, and leave your laptop for a while. Your family says they found you later in your room, sobbing into a pillow and choking on your own spit from coughing and gagging. You don't remember any of it; you think your world stopped turning a long time ago, but you choke out your reasoning anyways, managing to spit out your loss around the sand and weight lodged in your throat. 

Your family asks you if he was an atheist; you never understood why it mattered, but you answer 'yes', anyways. The silence is uncomfortable, shifting, heavy, and someone finally tells you that he's probably happier then he was before. No 'you'll meet him again', no comforting 'he's with God now'. Something breaks inside of you, and you slam the door and wail for the first time that you can remember in years. You don't pray that night. 

  


You lost your faith for a while in the God everyone told you would be there when everyone used his words as defense on why people like you were unnatural. You were a boy, you knew that; when you asked through tears in the dead of night why he would make someone with such obvious mistakes, a being who was supposed to make no mistakes, only the sound of an owl outside greeted you. You'd been broken for years before that, but it killed the man you used to be that night. 

You find your way back in your own particular way in the coming years, re-finding your faith without the prying eyes of family, or friends, or churchgoers, priests or pastors. You slowly start to pray at night, again, lighting up candles with a single offering of a nice scent you liked in the hopes of apologizing. When nothing bad happens, but you get your first good news of the months, you figure that he understands, and you thank him. You're scared of the silence, though, and the quiet, and the stillness, and you think that's why you still exist - not for any grand, notable reason, but because you're too scared to wonder what death brings you. Even believing in an afterlife doesn't help some people, and you're one of them. You start compulsively apologizing following your prayers, just to fill the silence. 

  


You're a man, now, barely living day to day with a proper diagnosis for what has plagued you for your whole life - _depression,_ they mutter with a shake of their heads as they leave the room. Among other things, you muse; at least you have a reason for barely getting out of bed in the morning. You don't really answer their questions after that, just mention offhand you talked another one of your friends off the ledge a week ago and ignore the pity in their eyes. You pick up your bag, fake a smile, and thank them for their time - _helpful as always, sir._ \- and leave before they ask you if you've wanted to die. 

You've wanted to die for years upon years. You don't really know why you exist. You think your family's mad that you're not a woman a lot of the time. You remember your best friend who took a gun to his head and you make the day a holiday for you and you alone every year, mourning with a single lit candle and a gun of your own to contemplate. You have nothing, you have never had anything; just the animals you care for and words on a screen. You're too scared to pull the trigger, though, and you don't know why, so you don't tell anyone that you wish you didn't wake up in the morning. You just press the razor in the shower a little too hard every now and then, and sit under the water and wonder why you're alive. 

  


People tell you all sorts of things about religion. They say you're not religious enough. Everyone has their own opinion on the afterlife; the door-to-door preachers tell you that death is meaningless. You rot in the ground when you die. Your family believes in Heaven, and insists that's what awaits them in the next life. They told you all about Hell as a child and make you fear the thought of flames and screams, just for existing. Your friends believe in reincarnation, and say it'll tie you all together, that you'll all surely find each other again in the next life. The woman down the street believes that only a strict set of laws is how you'll get into Heaven. The man at the corner store believes in a different afterlife then you do. No one can tell you what happens when you die; they all tell you something different. 

You fear oblivion. You fear nothingness, darkness, void, _silence._ You believe in an afterlife, but you're scared of what happens before that; if when you die, you just.... cease existing. You're too scared to die because if death means oblivion, you'd rather suffer living. _Even Hell would be better than nothing,_ you think weakly, and force down sleeping meds before you can gag on them to make it through another day and night. 

  


You don't remember how you died, just the awful crunch and briefly hoping your family online would somehow be notified of this, even though you don't live with anyone and your family wouldn't know for days and even if they did, they wouldn't have your log-in information. You regret not somehow having a failsafe - _if:[USER_HERE]=dead; then:message_[USERNAME][USERNAME][GROUPNAME]_ \- instead dooming your friends to the same cruel fate that you remember experiencing, so long ago. 

When you open your eyes, you're floating in darkness, and you feel panic seize your very being, a choked wail ripped out of your throat before you really understand where you are or what happened. You can't see, whether from the lack of light or the tears streaming down your face, you don't know; before you can even properly break down, a voice speaks to you, surrounding you on all sides. You think it sounds a bit like the very family you left behind, those closest to you that would comfort you when you cried and helped you through the days and nights, and you cease trembling for the moment, letting the soothing tone wash over your soul. When your tears dry up, you see a simple iron gate, illuminated with a faint glow, and a man standing near it, a hand outstretched. 

  


"Do not cry, my son," he murmurs, picking you up off the ground. "There's no need for that. Come, let us judge how you acted in life." 

  


"Wait," your voice is feeble and cracks, little more then a whisper as you swallow and try to speak. "Can I ask you something?" 

  


"Of course, my son." His voice is soothing, sounding nothing like you expected but instead taking the form of the voices of those close to you, and you blink away what's left of your tears. "You may ask me one question, before we move on." 

  


"Is... is there anything after this?" You whisper, tears brimming in the corner of your eyes already. "Is there just... nothing? I'm scared. I'm scared of oblivion. I can't take the quiet. I don't want to cease existing. I don't want to be alone." 

  


The gentle, soothing laugh that he responds with isn't what you expect, and it makes you cry again; you don't want to be laughed at anymore. You just want to rest. But he smiles at you, gently, and squeezes your hand as he walks. 

  


"My child, death is what you wish for it to be. If you fear oblivion so, you will never have to be alone again. I'm sure you have many people and things waiting for you here for all of your troubles and suffering." He replies, a gentle, loving smile across his face. "Come. It is time for you to rest, weary soul."

**Author's Note:**

> i'm having a weird day


End file.
